


Animal Rights

by Cards_Slash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, M/M, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, of course, is a cock tease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal Rights

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from LJ (2010)

Dean had been thinking. He’d been thinking a lot of things about a lot of things and he had been thinking that if some of those things were less bitchy and more compatible to his things than all things would be simpler. In fact, he was pretty damn sure that thinking about anything at all while he was drunk was a bad idea but thinking about certain things and their thing-ish ways would only end to fights about things and who’s things were the most important. Dean was of the belief that his things were pretty fucking important but he’d be the first to admit that other thing’s things were always the most important.

Which was why, really, he was in this situation with enough liquor in his stomach to make his entire vocabulary reduce itself to think and things and that-stupid-bitch. Now and again a spare word floated by but it was mostly just cock or ass or tease and that took him back to stupid-bitch so by the time he got to the bottom of the first bottle and went looking around for a second he was pretty much a slobbering idiot. A slobbering idiot with a bottle of tequila which wasn’t a favorite, a whole motel room to himself and a head full of things.

Things about things. Thinks about things.

He was worthless and sprawled across one of the beds which—he was fairly certain—wasn’t the one that he claimed but the one that Sam had been sleeping on. Because Sam was a bitch. Sam was a stupid bitch. Sam was a stupid bitch cock tease.

Halfway through the bottle of tequila he had a sudden inspired thought about the state of his liver and then he didn’t give a damn all over again because he was nose-deep in the smell of Sam’s shampoo on his pillow and how if Sam weren’t such a cock-tease and a bitch they could have been fucking. But there was an apocalypse and an angel—or several angels—and there was that demon bitch that fucked Sam over and then there was the fact that heaven was real.

Yeah, heaven was real and now Sam didn’t want to fuck him because if heaven was real and God was real than all those rules that they’d convinced themselves didn’t matter were suddenly valid again. So no assfucking your brother.

Which is why Dean was laying belly down on his brother’s bed with enough alcohol in his gut that his only thoughts were revolving around thinks of things that weren’t compatible. Because Dean had been to hell and he was damn sure that fucking his brother wasn’t the reason that he had been sent there and he was pretty fucking sure that if God was really all against the brother-fucking and the ass-fucking that he most likely—but not necessarily—wouldn’t have told Castiel to pull him out of hell.

Then again, God was missing and heaven was a bunch of bitches and Michael wanted his ass. So clearly heaven was all about that ass-sex. So all that was left to contest was the fact that Sam was technically his brother. It didn’t bother Dean—not a lot, not after their father was dead and they’d said good-bye to his memory and all of his fucking bullshit too. It didn’t bother Dean that he was fucking his brother.

It definitely didn’t bother Dean’s dick that he was fucking his brother. Sometimes it bothered his ass that he was fucking Sam but that was only when they were high on adrenaline and clumsy and rushed and Sam had him pinned against a wall or across the car or face down on the bed and was fucking him like it was going out of _style_. Mostly though, his ass was all about the fucking and that meant that all of Dean was full willing to make with the blasphemous, hell-damning incestuous ass sex. 

Oh, but Sam was a bitch and Sam had _morals_ now and again when he thought they were needed like right after he found out that heaven existed and after the demon bitch was finally _gone_ and right about the time Lucifer started walking around on earth.

Then it was: Dean, now is not the time.

Or, Dean—do you think this is the right place?

And then Cas helped them out with the rib tattoos so it wasn’t like the angels were even _watching over them_ but that didn’t seem to matter. Sam wriggled and protested and said things like:

_Dude, what about Chuck? Do you really want Chuck to know about—you know._

Sam would have had a completely valid point if it weren’t for the fact that Dean was pretty fucking sure that Chuck already knew that they were fucking because they’d been fucking for a while—since after their Dad died and Sam had gotten over his grief about his dead hot girlfriend enough to get into kinky shit with a werewolf. After you fuck a werewolf, fucking your brother just wasn’t that big of a deal. Or whatever, however Sam justified it. Dean didn’t ask how Sam worked out that it was ok to fuck because that conversation would have been more awkward than he was ready to commit to.

Like: _hey Sammy, so any particular reason you decided that now was the right time to fuck me?_

And Sam would have shrugged and wriggled and mumbled something logical and philosophical and wise about some shit or another. Like: _Well Dean, by my calculations the moon is full and I finally realized that you are ridiculously hot and that everyone in the world should want you and well—I couldn’t help myself_.

Yeah. Sam would never have said that.

So Dean was drunk and thinking about things and those things were far away from where he was because those things had objections about other things when it was too late to start protesting. Dean had already been to hell and it was hell-hounds and not ass-fucking that sent him there. Sammy was just stupid.

Really stupid.

Sammy was just really stupid and a bitch and a cock tease.

And when Cas showed up with a concerned face and a curious stare with a tilt-one-way-and-another look on his face and said something about getting a voicemail that he couldn’t understand most of, Cas asked him what was wrong and Dean told him exactly how it was.

“Sam’s a cock-tease,” he said. And then he blacked out.

\--

The only reason Sam was at the Laundromat was that it was open and it was warm and for some strange reason—it had wireless internet and plug-ins. The bored man in the back that was supposedly in charge of watching over the place overnight didn’t look like he gave a damn what Sam did as long as he didn’t start any shit. So Sam was sitting in a hard plastic chair with the laptop balanced on his lap and he was most definitely not worried about what Dean was doing back at the motel after they had another argument about anything at all but sex.

They never argued about sex.

Dean never asked for sex either.

Sam never denied that he wanted sex because Dean never asked about it.

Sam was working on a case, working on _the_ case. The only case there was at the moment—the one that involved Lucifer and the apocalypse. He was working on a way to save the world in a Laundromat sometime after eleven at night but before three AM while Dean did whatever it was that Dean did. If Sam had to wager he said it involved an easy woman or an easier bottle of booze but he didn’t want to think about that.

So he was pretending to work on the case while he clicked links to websites that thought they knew something about anything. He stared at the font on the page and blinked blurrily at the words while he tried to make sense of their meaning. Mostly, he just thought about how stupid most of the internet was and wondered why he was wasting his time and he definitely wasn’t worried about how much Dean had already drank or what kind of questionable woman he had picked up.

He didn’t even care about what diseases Dean could be getting off the dirty surfaces in some bar’s bathroom if he decided to be a real asshole and just have sex with whatever loose woman of poor character he happened to talk out of her miniskirt and thong. 

Not that Sam cared about the hypothetical woman or her even more hypothetical underclothes. He just didn’t need Dean getting incurable sexually transmitted diseases this close to the end of the world. They still had to find God and avoid Lucifer and Michael and heaven and think of some genius way to save the world. Which brought him back to research.

Research was going to save the world—Dean having sex was not.

Besides, Sam hadn’t ever turned Dean down because they hadn’t ever even talked about sex. At least not sex with one another. Not that they’d ever talked about how they sometimes (rather frequently) used to have sex with one another before Dean got dragged to hell by hell-hounds. They hadn’t talked about it except in grunts and groans and commands while they were in the middle of it. Like the occasional ‘let me move my leg my foot is numb’ or ‘right there is good’ or ‘your gun is digging into my spine’. 

Sometimes there was a ‘bitch, I sold my soul for you, bend over’ and Sam thought that was in poor taste but he let it slide because he’d been too worried about Dean to protest on the basis of poor taste. Besides—Dean had been going to hell and they’d been fighting about _everything_ so now and again he let Dean push him around if it made him feel better. 

That was before Dean went to hell and before Sam started the apocalypse. Things were different now, they were running from angels and demons and trying to save the world. There wasn’t time for illicit incestuous affairs with your brother when you were just trying to get through a day without getting noticed by anyone that might work for a demon or an angel. 

Then there was the fact that Lucifer wanted to ride his ass and all of heaven wanted him to give in and get his ass ridden. Heaven was full of kinky bitches and he didn’t even want to contemplate what kind of sick amusement they’d get from knowing he was having sex with Dean.

So they didn’t have sex or talk about sex or think about sex. Except that now and again, Sam found himself close enough to Dean to feel the heat of his body and close enough to smell his breath. Now and again he had long, slow and drawn out thoughts about what he’d like to do with his tongue and Dean’s body. He fantasized about all the ways he’d touched Dean and all the ways he’d used his body and he wondered if Dean still sounded-and-felt the same. 

But they didn’t talk about it. Dean didn’t move closer and he didn’t pull at Sam when Sam pulled away. 

That was why Sam was at the Laundromat after eleven and before three.

Cas found him after he’d walked past the steamed-over glass windows of the Laundromat and did a double take before he entered. He looked at the bored man in the back and the nice Asian man that was drying his third load of underwear before crinkling up his forehead in deep thought. Cas looked out at the empty streets and then at him.

“Sam,” he said solemnly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked because he hadn’t called Cas and Dean could have drunk dialed an angel (because Dean would) but that didn’t explain why Cas would come find him. “Is everything   
alright? Where’s Dean?”

“Dean is unconscious,” Cas said, “at the Seaside Motel.”

Well that was a relief. Sam nodded and wondered when exactly he’d stood up and then turned to set the laptop down on the chair where he’d been sitting. When he straightened up again Cas was squinting at him with great concentration. “What?”

“Is it one rooster in particular that you tease or any rooster?” Cas asked, “and what is the point in teasing roosters? I do not understand why Dean would be so upset about you teasing fowl.”

“What?” Sam asked, “what roosters?”

“The ones you tease,” Cas explained.

“I don’t tease roosters,” Sam said, “who said I tease roosters?”

“Dean said you were a cock tease. He seemed very upset. He was very inebriated.” Cas was still squinting at him as if it would all make sense if he could just get the angle of his head right. “I was not aware Dean was interested in animal rights.”

Sam would have found the whole thing far more humorous if Dean weren’t calling him a cock tease behind his back to an _angel_. Sam was _not_ a cock tease. He shoved his laptop into his bag and pulled the bag up onto his shoulder. “He wasn’t talking about a rooster,” Sam said without any further explanation, “excuse me.”

\--

Dean woke up with a hangover that was trying to kill him. He’d died before so he knew all the signs and this hangover was trying to _kill_ him. He managed to drag himself from the bed to the bathroom without loss of limb or life and even manage to get through the rituals of the morning without puking his guts out but there were several close calls and all the of the lights were _blinding_. 

Sam, of course, was glaring at him about something that only Sam understood. And whatever it was that Sam understood about how Dean was a bitch and how he’d gone off and done something absolutely unforgiveable (again) was enough to make Sam into a bitch. A bitch that slammed shit around and threw stuff and shouted at him about stupid shit.

“You look like shit, Dean,” Sam said _loudly_ , “what in the hell were you drinking?”

“Why are you so loud?” Dean asked. He was pretty sure that he was whispering but it was hard to tell around the deafening throb of his head and the sickening twist in the back of his throat that left him feeling like his voice had been scoured right out of his chest. “Why are the blinds open? Who turned the lights on?”

“You stupid ass,” Sam mumbled and threw a bottle of pain killers at him. Dean knew for a fact that the bitch had near perfect aim so when the bottle slammed into the side of his face just below his temple--it hit exactly where Sam had been aiming. “You better not puke in the car.” Then he chucked a bottle of water at Dean that hit him in the chest and dropped to the ground. 

“What’s your problem?” Dean demanded. As much as he could demand. Which wasn’t a lot.

If he shouted something when the door was yanked open and the fresh air and sunlight poured into the room like a river of pain, it was only because he was seriously hungover. He took a few pills (maybe) and drank a whole lot of water (except what he spilled) and he crawled into the backseat of the Impala to pull his coat over his head and die a quiet and dignified death.

They were halfway to wherever the hell Sam was driving them before Dean even got awake enough to realize that he was hungry, he needed to piss and he might have told Castiel that his brother was a cock-teasing bitch. The first two were pretty easy to fix, all he had to do was kick the back of Sam’s seat and demand he find somewhere to stop so they could eat and he could piss. 

Sam said something about ‘bitch bitch, complain, whine’ and Dean ignored him because the hangover was still fairly mind-numbing. Also, if he paid attention to what Sam was saying he would have to start thinking about everything he had been thinking about last night and he was working really hard not to think about Sam and cocks.

“Dude, seriously,” Sam said once they were in the parking lot and Sam was completely upright while Dean was about three-quarters upright and contemplating how much he hated sunlight and liquor. “How much did you drink?”

“Shut up and get us a table,” Dean said. He found the bathroom and through some miraculous kindness managed not to piss all over himself or the floor and washed his hands and face and looked halfway close to presentable. Still smelled because every time he belched he was reminded of exactly what he’d been drinking the night before--but there was only so much a man could do in the bathroom of a diner.

When he found Sam there was already food on the table and Sam was flirting with Jenny-the-waitress. Which was strange because Sam didn’t flirt anymore (possibly because he’d started the apocalypse and partly because his last steady girlfriend had been a demon that got him high on her blood and then tricked him into setting Lucifer free from hell) and because Jenny was kind of...plain. Sam’s girlfriends or female interests were usually pretty damn hot. And usually short.

Jenny was kind of short, kind of flat chested, kind of looked like she’d gone through all of high school without a date and nobody remembered her name--ever. She liked Sam though and Sam was smiling at her with the dimples and the sweet promises about how he’d take care of her forever and they’d name their children after the grandparents. 

“Thanks,” Dean said to Jenny-the-waitress.

She giggled at Sam and he thanked her far more than she needed to be thanked. Then he watched her walk away and turned back to look at Dean with an uncharacteristically horny grin on his face. 

“Dude,” Dean said, “no.”

“Already got her number,” Sam said and held it up.

“You should be ashamed,” Dean informed him, “on so many levels.” He would have said more but there was food and he was starving and as long as he was eating he wasn’t thinking about Sam and cocks and that stupid, annoying and plain waitress named Jenny who didn’t even have a decent ass.

\--

 

Sam was not a cock tease. Sam had _never_ been a cock tease. In fact, much to his embarrassment and eternal shame, Sam was a pretty damn easy lay when it came to Dean. Jess had had a harder time getting his pants off and he chose not to think about it because—he didn’t want to think about it. So, comparatively, Sam was more or less a slut for Dean and all Dean ever really had to do was just _ask_. Except that they didn’t talk about sex and hadn’t ever talked about sex and that meant Dean couldn’t possibly just say: _Sam, I’m hot for your body. Take off all your clothes._

So really, Sam had not been a cock tease but that was before. Now—well, now was an entirely different. 

Now, he found excuses to do stupid things like flirt with everyone and everything that crossed their paths—except for when it would be just plain wrong such as Lucifer, demons and victims of demons that they were consoling. But waitresses, random people, this woman that was checking them into their motel room when they stopped along the road again—they were all easy to flirt with. (Easy and desperate and he felt bad about leading them on when he didn’t even want them.)

Once he’d gotten Dean flustered and pissy about his flirting, pushed him until he was saying stupid shit about: _What the world’s ending and you just now discover your inner slut?_ and _Sammy, that woman is twice your age. She could be your mother and not in that MILF way_ , Sam decided to switch tactics.

Milkshakes drove Dean insane. In fact, as long as they’d been fucking, milkshakes had always driven Dean insane. Sam never quite understood why the hell that was but he was more than willing to use it to his advantage and he made sure to get nice thick, creamy vanilla milkshakes everywhere they went. He drank them slow and with great concentration, licked his lips every time he went to wrap his mouth around the straw and moaned little appreciative sighs about the taste.

“Dude,” Dean said after two and a half days of Sam blowing milkshakes (instead of him), “you need to get laid.”

Sam discovered a streak of milkshake going down the back of his fingers and sucked two of them into his mouth to lick away the taste while he listened intently to Dean’s every word. Mostly he tried not to grin too broadly while Dean’s eyes all but rolled back into his head. “Dean, do you really think it’s the right time to be thinking about sex? I mean—we still don’t even know how we’re going to stop Lucifer.”

Dean was eying him like, _suck my dick, please Sam, I’ll give you anything you fucking want if you get on your knees right here and suck me off and put me out of my misery once and for all_ and he ignored everything Sam said in favor of finishing his sandwich and fries. 

Then Sam started watching porn on the grainy TVs in the crappy motel rooms. He started with the straight, soft-corn porn that was really nothing more than women without their clothes. He was a red-blooded man just like everyone else and it got him hot and bothered enough that he was stroking the inside of his thigh and thinking about how strategic it would be to masturbate all over Dean’s bed. He never quite made it that far because Dean kept walking in on him staring intently at the screen and molesting his own thigh.

“I’m going out,” Dean said abruptly and turned and ran for it.

Sam jacked off in the bathroom because he was starting to drive himself insane. After a few days of that he switched to the harder stuff where some busty woman or another was begging for cock and choking while she gave a blowjob—which Sam just didn’t understand—and he let Dean catch him watching it while he palmed his dick through his jeans and had very deep and serious thoughts about ignoring his whole plan and just shoving Dean face-down on the comforter.

“Sammy,” Dean said like he was in _physical pain_.

“Shhh,” Sam said.

Dean left with a slam of the door and roared off in the Impala.

He was tempted to move onto gay porn but he figured if Dean found him jacking off to some blond twink getting nailed by some ridiculously large-dicked muscle jerk that the whole game would be over because they would either kill one another or have sex. 

(Sam wanted to have sex. He was dreaming about sex, about how they used to have sex in the cruddy motels and how good it was and how Dean really did deserve that reputation he had with women in every state of the US because _damn_ he was—)

So gay porn was clearly out of the question and he just didn’t want to flirt with strangers anymore because that gave them all the wrong ideas and Dean was running off to find easy women and their easy thongs just about every time they stopped for gas. Sam decided to switch tactics. He took a steaming hot shower and walked out into the motel room in his towel.

Dean stared at him and all but fucking _drooled_ over the sight of him before he launched into a tirade about hot water and no towels and dirty sheets and bad service and how he was starving and there was still an apocalypse out there. Sam held onto his towel and rolled his eyes at his brother and shook his still wet hair.

“There’s still hot water,” Sam said, “and you can have this towel,” he pulled it off and held it out toward Dean. It took all his concentration not to grin or just to jump Dean right then and there with his bed-head and his disgruntled and lust-dumb look. 

Dean just yanked the towel from him and slammed the bathroom door as hard as he could.

\--

The troubling thing wasn’t that the world was ending. It wasn’t even that there was an archangel and his lackeys out there looking for him so they could have his ass and end the world or kill most of the people on the planet or whatever ridiculously stupid shit they had planned. (Oh and there was definitely some unresolved sexual tension going on between Michael and Lucifer because there was no way you hated your brother half as much as Michael seemed to hate Lucifer unless Lucifer was as big a cock tease as Sam was. If that was the case, Dean didn’t really blame Michael for wanting to kill the little bitch.) No, the really-really troubling thing was that Sam was flirting with Cas.

Cas didn’t even like Sam. Or Cas didn’t used to like Sam. For whatever nonsensical reason, once Sam had started the apocalypse, Cas seemed to like him more. (And that really made no sense considering how Cas had been against the starting of the end of the world and against Sam for almost a full damn year.)

Sam didn’t even like _Cas_. (Dean had had his suspicions that all of that dislike had been jealousy on Sam’s part because Cas had gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition, plus Dean hadn’t been actively pissed off at Cas for choosing some skanky demon whore bitch over him.)

But there they were, Cas was listening attentively while Sam told some story or another. They were _sharing a drink_ when neither of them even drank that much. Sam was in full animated mode with the hand gestures and Cas was in full out attentive mode while he leaned in close and listened to everything. He asked questions at the appropriate intervals and while Dean couldn’t hear the questions or the answers that followed them he could tell even from the distance that they were all good questions.

Sam licked the rim of his cup and lapped at the froth on the corner of his lips and Cas seemed to find that especially interesting.

When Dean wandered over to check on them and to grab a handful of peanuts out of the basket on the table, Cas was explaining something important sounding about Enochian exorcisms. He paused while Dean stood there and Sam was smiling while he stared at Dean as if he were just waiting for him to go away.

It was all fine. It was all perfectly _fine_ because the two of them were nerds and they talked about all kinds of shit that he didn’t care about when all he needed to know was where and with what to stab whatever they were killing. So if Sam wanted to geek out with an angel over a few drinks—well that was fine.

That was before he found the two of them against the Impala. The two of them pressed against the Impala—Cas sitting up on the rolled down front window with his fingers pressed against the car like he was grounding himself and his other hand around Sam’s neck. Sam was all fingers and hips and kissing Cas like he was going to _eat_ him and Dean knew what it felt like to be kissed like so he understood when Cas groaned and he understood why Cas’ legs were sprawled open because _damn_. Once Sam got going he overwhelmed you until there was no common sense in the world. Like that—like how Sam’s hands were inside of the trench coat and tugging Cas’ shirt up so he could get at his skin and the stuttering but unashamed flex of Sam’s hips forward against Cas. 

It was a disgusting, horrifying, terrible display of blasphemy. Sam was part-fucking-demon and Cas was almost-a-whole angel and the two of them had no business rubbing and making out and swapping spit against _his_ car like that. 

And Cas was an angel of the Lord and he damn sure shouldn’t have pulled at Sam’s jacket and arched his back and acted like he was more than willing to give Sam whatever he wanted. Cas didn’t even know what Sam wanted and that was just disgusting. You didn’t fuck an angel—(ok, so he might have fucked an angel but she wasn’t an angel when he fucked her and she wasn’t a _virgin_ angel either)—it just wasn’t right. 

Sam was groaning low in his throat like a growl and pulling away his mouth away from Cas with his eyes still closed and whatever he said was so quiet and low that Dean couldn’t make it out but Cas could. Cas nodded his head and squeezed his fingers tight around Sam’s arm before he loosened his grip and disappeared without looking around. Sam straightened up, wiped at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and turned back to look at him.

“Oh,” Dean said, “you should be so ashamed of yourself. Just wait until Lucifer finds out you were making out with his little brother.”

Sam laughed at him, “I don’t think Lucifer’s going to care.” He got into the car and they drove away from the bar and the motel toward wherever it was he was supposed to be driving toward. They were on an interstate going somewhere when Sam licked his lips and then his thumb, “did you know Cas tastes like sugar cookies?”

No. No he didn’t. “Too much information,” Dean said.

\--

There were a few very surreal moments in Sam’s life and then there a few moments that seemed surreal at the time but seemed rather tame and uninteresting in the greater scheme of things. Demon blood and dying for the first few times and coming back and going through heaven had all seemed somewhat surreal at the time. (For that matter, having sex with a demon-in-a-coma-victim-body should have seemed surreal but he just remembered it being satisfying and somewhat rough.) 

Lucifer propositioning him should have been surreal and while it stuck out in his memory quite vividly--it wasn’t even really surreal anymore.

The first time he pinned Dean to a bed just to watch him struggle before he fucked him had been perfectly normal _at the time_ and been weird as all shit the next morning because he’d woken up with a head full of knowledge about how his brother liked to get fucked that just didn’t sit nicely next to all the memories he had of Dean when they were young. It still struck him as vaguely surreal.

Nothing, however, was stranger than when Cas turned up mostly drunk and snorted at the argument they were having about the apocalypse and gave Sam the dirtiest look that Sam had _ever_ scene, that sort of stare that screamed: _I wish to disembowel you for the crime of teasing my cock._

“I don’t know,” Cas said in regards to whatever Dean had been asking. He waved his hand as if the whole thing was of no importance to him. “I don’t understand why you persist in fighting when you will inevitably fail. The world is coming to an end--Lucifer will end it.”

“No he won’t,” Dean said, “he needs his true vessel to end the world and we’re not--”

Cas just _laughed_.

“What?” Sam demanded, “you think I’m going to give into Lucifer? Because I’m not.”

There was that look again and Sam had very serious thoughts about guarding himself while Dean seemed offended on his behalf but not in the way that he usually was about people threatening Sam. In fact, Dean looked like he felt that Sam deserved the evil-stares that he was getting from the angel. “No,” Cas said at last, “I don’t think you will give into Lucifer.”

“Because I--” but Sam’s explanation (and protest) was cut off by Cas.

Cas was drunk and Cas was snorting. “I believe you will continue to tease Lucifer with the promise of having you before ultimately turning him down and he will end the world out of retribution.” Then he looked at him very seriously and said very _seriously_ , “nobody likes a cock tease.”

Then Dean burst out into uncontrollable gut-hugging laughter and whatever conversation they had been having about the end of the world was brought to an abrupt end. Cas kept glaring at him before he picked up his bottle of whiskey and stumbled toward the door with another backward sneer shot in his direction.

“Oh man,” Dean wheezed, “your _face_ , Sammy you should see your face!” Then he started laughing all over again.

Sam considered how the whole situation had gotten out of hand and tried to figure out exactly when he’d lost control of it. He estimated (but wasn’t sure) that it must have been around the time he’d convinced Cas to make out with him in the backseat of the Impala after they’d already made out against the Impala and in the motel room on Dean’s bed. Before the backseat it had been all fun and games but Cas had seemed genuinely interested in sex after the backseat. (Usually Cas just used the excuse that he was experimenting or indulging Sam’s base Human needs for the good of the world or whatever.) 

Sam cleared his throat when Dean reached a pause in his guffawing. “I’m not a cock tease,” he said with a pout, “all he had to do was ask, I would have sucked him off.” 

That--that shut Dean the hell up pretty damn fast. 

Sam pushed his hands down into his pockets and looked hurt and sad and said he was going for a walk. Once he was out the door he grinned at the blinking neon light that announced there were no vacancies at the motel and started walking just so Dean would have a little time to let that thought marinate.

\--

So, as it turned out, Sam didn’t have an issue with the brother fucking thing. Dean just waited for him to come back from his fake walk and cleared his throat and nodded his head toward the bed and said: “want to fuck?” and Sam grinned at him like he thought Dean would never ask.

“Sure,” Sam said.

Then they did and it was really, really, really good.


End file.
